Five Years Gone
by bridgetlynn
Summary: 6 years ago his partner died in an explosion; but Callen never saw the body. The CIA claims she never existed; he worked solo those 5 years. When clearer memories bring more questions then answers for the Agent, he decides it's time to find out the truth.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** NCIS: Los Angeles and related/recognizable characters/materials are copyright of Shane Brennan, Shane Brennan Productions, CBS Television Studios and any affiliated companies. I do own the character of Aileen Flynn. This Fan Fiction is not intended for profit nor is any copyright infringement intended.

**Author Note:** Follows my story "Therapy" (which followed "Gravity"). G's background that is alluded to in the previous two stories will be much more heavily addressed here so it's suggested that you read those two first.

**Spoilers:** Starts one month after the season finale ("Callen, G.") therefore anything in season 1 is fair game.

* * *

_Callen's eyes slowly scanned the room while he casually browsed through his cell phone, waiting to send a signal for the Special Activities Division paramilitary team to move on the house and arrest everyone they laid eyes on. His eyes passed Aileen and he smiled slightly at the thought that, after tonight, they had been promised three months of downtime. After what happened in Cairo six months earlier, they needed the break._

_She raised an eyebrow in question and he quickly shook his head to reassure her before moving his gaze to another part of the room while she turned back to the conversation she was having. They arrived an hour earlier and Aileen had immediately greeted the local neo-nazi group leader's wives with a bright smile and hugs. They had been chatting away in rapid fire German ever since; sufficiently distracting a third of the rooms occupants._

_A glance at his watch told Callen that he had ten minutes before the arrival of the Al-Qaeda operatives, as Steven James, the local Aryan Nations leader, called them. Callen's nerves had been frayed to an inch of his life when he heard that description four months ago, two months after he and Aileen managed to fully infiltrate the group. Then two weeks later he had met the supposed Al-Qaeda; seven jumpy and unorganized second generation American born, Iranian descent, college students. Six months of work and they had ten minutes before it was all over; which meant he had around a half hour before he could grab Aileen, get in a car and get the hell out of the United States._

_The partners had decided to leave as soon as they were sure all the targets were secure; because, while it wouldn't be the first time they had operated in the United States, it would be the first time an operation had lasted longer then a few hours or days. Six months was pushing the limit on how many blind eyes could be turned; even with a startling number of rumors that in early 2005, mere weeks from then, the Aryan Nations national leader, August Kreis III, would be calling for an alliance with Al-Qaeda*. The Agency had heard too many reports that this rumor could prove to be true and wanted to attempt to cut off any potential cells before the announcement could be made publicly._

_Callen looked around the room once more as the door opened and the students began walking in to the living room of the old house. As all seven stood in a loose circle, intermingled with twenty-five white supremacists, Callen couldn't help but think how lucky they had gotten. None of the other teams had gotten remotely as close to their own targets and had all been pulled weeks earlier once it was observed that they were making no headway. Yet, he and his partner, relatively unpopular (if effective) Officers, were about to level what amounted to two terror cells, just with two different agendas._

_Aileen nodded from across the room once and he saw her thumb depress a button on her cell phone. Callen immediately reciprocated the action and waited. Ten minutes passed, then fifteen, and the meeting went on. The partners traded barely noticeable concerned looks and once again repeated their previous action to send the signal that said all the players were in the room._

_This time they got a reaction._

_At first it was just a light rumble in the distance that left Callen feeling uneasy, as though he should know what was coming next. Next came the sudden change in pressure as everyone felt like their heads had been placed in a vice. And finally, the panicked screams, as every window in the large house imploded, sending glass and anything reasonably light in the room flying._

_A reaction that took thirty seconds._

_Callen was forced to blink his eyes dazedly as he looked around and tried to focus and hear anything other then the ringing in his ears. The fact that everyone else looked just as stunned as he felt clued him into the fact that not much time had passed; but he still couldn't figure out why the house wasn't swarming with an SAD team. He gently probed the side of his head, where he was beginning to notice a stinging, and pulled his fingers away to see blood. A glance at the floor revealed all the items of the shelf that had been hanging behind him; one of which, a large iron candlestick, with blood._

_"Oh," he whispered. "That's what happened," shaking his head again and cursing the obvious concussion as he tried to piece his thoughts together and find his partner as chaos began to explode around him._

_The SAD team finally came through the house. And the two homegrown terrorist groups had turned on each other. Even concussed Callen knew three groups of combatants in a small space was not going to end up a win for anybody._

_A sharp sting in his arm, and a muffled curse from his own mouth, immediately slapped the slight fog that had been growing quickly around his brain away as he realized he had been shot by a small caliber round, probably one of the Aryan Nations members, and he needed to find his partner._

_His blue eyes scanned the room a few times, trying to see through the smoke of gunfire and haze from whatever blew the windows. He finally spotted her when he heard his cover name being screamed in sheer terror; a tone he had never heard the younger woman use in five years of knowing her. Aileen was crouched behind a couch, clutching a hand to her shoulder and trying to stem the flow of blood that was turning her white jacket red. Other then the shoulder wound she didn't appear injured; just pinned down behind the couch as they hadn't been able to bring weapons in or risk their covers._

_It was when he was five feet, maybe twenty-steps away from her, that he felt it. If it had been any other situation Callen might have found it comical how Aileen's eyes widened in shock before different parts of the house began exploding or collapsing, in a blatant series of timed charges, including enough of the floor around her which sent her plunging into the basement as well with a scream and a flash of fire._

"No!" G screamed, sitting up in bed, eyes wide and breathing labored. "No. No."

The pleaded word fell out of his mouth a few more times until his mind and body fully pulled itself from sleep and he realized that he wasn't back in a destroyed house in Seattle; but rather in a new rooming house, still near Venice Beach, as he had moved a few days after he saw his sister's grave. The month since that day had been a constant slam of cases leaving Callen without a spare minute to begin to dig into information about himself or the possible whereabouts of his one time partner.

Thinking back of the dream, Callen couldn't help but feel as though he had been watching it, rather then experiencing it. His memories of that night were still fuzzy in some places, the doctor's having diagnosed a massive concussion upon his arrival to the hospital that night, including the knowledge of how exactly he got out of the house to begin with. His handler, Thomas, had informed Callen that one of the neo-nazi soldiers had dragged him out and then been arrested with his compatriots. The explanation had never sat right with Callen, mainly because of the presence of the SAD team in the house and the explosives themselves. An SAD team Thomas claimed never made it into the house because of the bombs.

"Steven didn't have access to explosives," he spoke aloud to the empty room, referring to the neo-nazi leader. "And I doubt those barely organized college kids did either," he added with a dark laugh.

The Agency had claimed they believed the Aryan Nations group had rigged their house as an insurance policy. The little digging around Callen had done, had told him the FBI thought that the wanna-be Al-Qaeda soldiers had rigged the explosives. Either way, all it left Callen was with more questions.

Groaning he fell back onto his pillow and rubbed his eyes as he tried to force himself back to sleep and ignore the constant nagging feeling in his gut that something was going to happen. Nate had explained away his distraction, when asked, over the last month for him; he had told Callen that with the knowledge that there might be someone out there, connected to him, keeping tabs on him, was so out of the ordinary to the life Callen had established that he was logically off-kilter.

The Operative couldn't shake the feeling that there was a lot more going on then a simple case of nerves.

* * *

*The 2005 announcement of a request for an alliance between the Aryan Nations and the Al-Qaeda by August Kreis III is true. That's what I based the Seattle Op on. It was meant to be kind of a pre-emptive strike.

This is the prologue to what is going to be a longer (though I'm not entirely sure how long yet) story addressing in detail what was alluded to in "Gravity" and "Therapy". It will be on the darker side. It's not meant to be a "hey this is what'll probably happen in Season 2" fic. The writers have their plan for Callen's family and I'm sure it's wonderful. I'll leave that to them.

That all being said, reviews are the lifesblood of an author. Especially a fanfic author. I like to know what my readers think of what I put out there, because it helps me with where I take the story in the future (I know what things might need clarifications, what points are being enjoyed and I could embellish further in the plot, etc.). If you don't review how am I supposed to know what you like and/or dislike? They also fuel my energy to write more often.

Thank you a million times over for reading. Chapter 1 within the next day or so (might be working a few hours tomorrow so I have to see what I can get to).


	2. Chapter One

**Disclaimer:** See prologue.

* * *

The steady sound of feet hitting the pavement and freshly mowed grass were the only sounds and smells Elizabeth Banks was processing on her morning run; or at least that's what she was trying to tell herself. Unfortunately, car horns in Los Angeles traffic, screaming children and smog were all beginning to creep into her awareness with each passing moment. A glance at her watch, then her pedometer, told her she had been running for an hour or seven miles.

"Shit," she muttered, glaring at the pedometer. "So much for that six-minute mile theory."

Shaking her head she broke back into a light jog and left Barnsdall Park, continuously slowing her jog as she made a right onto Hollywood Boulevard until she was fully cooled down and was walking into the Starbucks on the corner of Hollywood and Vermont Avenue. The doorbell chimed as she walked inside and the sight of the crowded cafe elicited a grown from the redhead. Ten minutes later she was holding a venti black tea and surreptitiously scanning the full tables with a frown.

After a full minute she finally sighed and made her way across the room to the only vaguely familiar face in the crowd and paused at his table greeting the bowed head quietly, "Good morning Mocha Latte."

She waited as the head of lightly curly short brown hair raised and brown eyes met hers curiously, "Good morning?"

"So, this is entirely random, and feel free to say no, but, umm, can I sit down?"

Mocha Latte glanced around the room and seemed to process why she was asking immediately, before moving a few stacks of paper away from the free seat and gesturing for her to sit, "Go ahead. Packed in here for a Saturday huh?"

"Little bit," she agreed, sitting and leaning back in the chair with a relieved sigh.

"Long run this morning?"

"Not long enough," she replied to the man who for the last six months had been on line either in front of, or behind her, every weekday morning. "You're not usually here on Saturdays."

"Had some work to do and the air conditioning in my apartment is out," he responded.

"I'm not bothering you am I?"

"Not at all," he replied quickly, this time giving her a bright smile. "I'm Nate."

"Nice name. Much better then Mocha Latte," she replied with a smirk. "I'm Beth."

"In my head you've been Amanda."

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow and laughed when Nate blushed and began studying the papers in front of him after the sentence left his mouth. She let her eyes trail over him for a second before smirking and replying, "So, you think about me often huh?"

"No, no, nothing like that. It's just, umm, my job?"

"Really?" she asked, disbelief coloring her words. "To guess names?"

"Well, no but it's not just you; that guy in the suit who gets the danish and black coffee every day is Ted. I'm a psychologist. I study people."

"Practicing or research?" she responded immediately and then frowned. "Dunno why I asked that."

Nate chuckled, "It's fine. I guess I do both. I work for NCIS."

"You're a fed?"

Nate paused and studied her for a moment, "You know what that is?"

Beth nodded and took a sip of her tea, "Naval Criminal Investigative Services."

"That's right. Not too many people know that," he commented carefully and Beth realized he was studying her a lot harder, almost suspiciously.

"I work for State," she replied to his unanswered question and relaxed when he did. "So what kind of psychology to you use with NCIS?"

Nate shifted slightly uncomfortably in his chair and looked at her apologetically, "I can't really talk about it. You know a bit about the field?"

"Not really no," Beth admitted and kept her own confusion as deeply bottled as she could; since as far as she knew, she didn't know enough about it to have a conversation on the topic. "I must have seen one too many episodes of Doctor Phil."

Nate chuckled and commented, "Ah, yes, daytime television. Turning all of America into armchair psychologists."

"Exactly," Beth shot back with a laugh. "I didn't mean to pry either. I know enough about the word classified to keep my mouth shut when someone says they can't discuss something."

"What do you do at the State Department?"

Beth smirked and shook a finger at her table-mate before sighing and replying, "Unfortunately, I don't have near enough clearance to be able to shoot you down with a classified line. I'm a contract translator. Basically, my boss emails me a document and I translate it back into English. They don't ever send me anything remotely fun though."

"How long have you been working there?"

Beth frowned at the seemingly benign question and wondered how to answer it, because she was fairly certain 'I don't know exactly' wouldn't cut it in this instance. She saw the embarrassed look cross Nate's face and smiled to reassure him that he hadn't done anything wrong before taking a deep breath and answering as honestly as she could, "Eight years, but there was an accident a little less then six years ago and I've only been back on the job for a little over two."

"I'm sorry," Nate replied immediately looking for all the world like he was kicking himself for asking.

"It's fine," she whispered and glanced at her watch. "It's not your fault. I have to go though. I've got a deadline to meet."

"Of course," Nate replied standing up as she did. "Would you like to get a drink some time?"

Beth froze and stared back in surprise, "Really?"

"Yes, really."

"That'd be great," she said with a bright smile and grabbed his pencil off the table, writing her number onto a napkin and handing it to him. "That's me. Though, I suppose I'll see you on Monday."

"Probably," he smiled back and sat down, absorbing himself back into the papers he had been studying when she arrived.

The smile stayed on Beth's face the entire walk back to her apartment and didn't leave until she walked into her one-bedroom apartment and was greeted by a sharp voice, "Where the hell have you been?"

"Jogging, what are you? My father?"

"No, I'm your brother and I came over to visit and you weren't here."

"Jesus Tommy," Beth snapped back at the tall blonde haired man who was sitting on her living room couch. "I went out for a run and then I went to Starbucks. Alert the police. I'm not four."

"You might as well be," he muttered, following her into the kitchen. "I was worried Bethy. I'm sorry."

"Yea, fine," she whispered, staring out the kitchen window and refusing to meet his eyes. "I have work to do. You should go."

"Why don't we have lunch together? I haven't seen you in a few days."

"You mean you haven't interrogated me in a few days!" she shouted back. "Get out Tom. I have work to do." Any retort her brother could have made was interrupted by the sound of her cell phone ringing, "I have to get this."

"I'll wait," the older male replied.

"Hello?"

**"Hey Beth, it's Nate. I was wondering if you wanted to get that drink tonight?"**

"Tonight? I'd love to," she responded in delight, turning her back on her brother and grinning so he wouldn't see just how thrilled she was. "Where do you want to meet?"

**"Do you know Akbar? On West Sunset?"**

"I do."

**"Good. I'm supposed to meet some people I work with tonight. I thought it could be a nice social thing. No pressure that way."**

"Sounds great," Beth agreed. "What time?"

**"Nine?"**

"I'll see you there. Bye Nate."

**"Bye."**

"Who's Nate?" Thomas practically growled the second she hung up the phone.

"None of your business," she shot back. "Now as I was saying. I have work to do."

"Where are you meeting him?"

"Again, none of your business."

"Oh really? And what would Greg think?"

Beth paled at the mention of her long dead husband and immediately felt ashamed, but only for a moment before the anger took over, "I don't know! Because I don't remember him!"

"Fine, whatever. I'm just trying to take care of you."

"You don't need to. I'm not a child!"

"Oh really? Okay, cool. What'd you get for your tenth birthday."

Beth froze at the question and her shoulders dropped, "That's not fair Tommy."

"I know it's not fair Bethy. This whole situation isn't fair. I just don't want you to get hurt," he replied quietly. "You're all I have left. But you're right. You're an adult. Just call me when you get home tonight?"

"Alright," she finally agreed and waved as he walked out of the apartment, leaving her feeling like the biggest bitch on the planet.

Her brother Thomas had been waiting in the hospital when she woke up after a year and a half in a coma terrified because all she could remember was how to speak multiple languages. He had been by her side almost every single day for a year and a half after that as she went through multiple surgeries to graft skin onto the burns on her arm and back and the subsequent physical therapy. He had been the one that had put her back in touch with her boss, Tracey Watkins, to get her job back as a translator for the State Department in California. But now, two years after getting her own apartment in Los Angeles, she didn't understand why he still insisted on keeping tabs on every aspect of her life.

"Breathe Beth," she told herself. "You've got a, sort of, date tonight. But first you need to finish that briefing and send it to Tracey."

Three hours later found Beth emailing and faxing the English translation of a twenty page Russian oil company contract to her boss and then walking into her room to open a safe she had hidden underneath her bed a year earlier. The safe had been purchased when she realized her brother had developed a tendency to look through her things when she wasn't home.

Pulling out a file folder and a sketch book, she opened the folder and the skimmed the top document then smiled at the date on it, "Lease is up in two months. Time to move. Thank God."

She didn't understand it, and didn't want to tell her brother in case he dragged her back to a new neurologist, but after three months in her apartment she had been climbing the walls. Every new sound made her jump. At the one year mark she had to add a third deadbolt to the door rather then have a panic attack anytime someone knocked. Regardless, she still didn't feel safe.

Flipping through the folder she stopped on the marriage and death certificates. The marriage certificate told her she had been married to a Gregory Michael Banks ten years earlier in 2001 when she was twenty-six. Her brother told her they got married in a small ceremony right after she finished her masters at UCLA. The death certificate told her the date she had become comatose; Greg had never made it out of the house fire that had been caused by a blown gas pipe.

"Rule three," she whispered and then frowned, shaking her head and rolling her eyes before closing the folder and picking up the sketch book. Flipping open the pages she stared at the drawings that took up pages of the book.

The drawings began as a set of eyes and had gotten progressively more detailed as the last two years had progressed. They were all of the same person; she knew that, she just didn't know who it was. Her psychologist, someone she had apparently been seeing since before the accident, told her the drawings were her husband. He said it was normal, her subconscious was grieving for the lost love of her life. Beth had smiled, agreed and went along with the diagnosis.

"Except," she whispered to the drawing, running her fingers down the edge of the paper feeling soft skin instead. "Your name isn't Greg. So who are you?"

* * *

Hopefully we're all on the same page after this...

Thanks for reading. Please review and let me know what you think so far. Much love.


	3. Chapter Two

**Disclaimer:** See Prologue.

* * *

Callen slowly made his way through the office dreading getting to his desk, Sunday had been another night of restless sleep and the feeling that something was brewing on the edge of exploding. He could hear voices in the bullpen, their tone telling him that someone was being teased within an inch of their life and it was just not something he had the energy to participate in at the moment. But, he didn't make his living as being someone else for no reason so as he reached the iron fences that surrounded their desk he threw a good natured grin on and raised an eyebrow before commenting, "So, who got laid this weekend?"

"Nate," Kensi replied quickly, with an evil grin. "But he won't admit it."

"I did not get laid," Nate insisted, in a voice that informed Callen this wasn't his first denial of the subject. "And is this really work appropriate conversation?"

"He got laid," Sam interjected with a knowing smirk. "Or else he wouldn't be trying so hard to deny it."

"Nevermind," Nate muttered looking genuinely annoyed. "Just drop it."

Callen set his bags down and studied his co-workers carefully before asking, "Did I miss something?"

"You shoulda come out with us on Saturday Callen," Kensi explained. "You could have met Beth."

"Yea," Eric agreed without looking up from his mobile computer. "Nate managed to pick up this hot red head, invite her out for drinks and take her home."

"Nice," Callen replied with a laugh. "Once you go red man you'll never go back. They're firecrackers."

"Translation, I invited a nice woman out for a drink and then walked her to her car since you two were busy trying to out do each other on shots."

"We were giving you two time alone," Eric explained and waggled his eyebrows.

"Why don't we have a case?" Nate mumbled, flipping through the folder he was trying to hide behind. "She's a nice girl," he finally supplied, glaring at the other four people who were smirking at him. "But I don't think it's going to go in that direction. That was the point of drinks."

"It's probably a good thing," Kensi suddenly agreed, leaving all the males in the conversation looking surprised. "There was something off about her."

"You were just encouraging him," Sam commented, giving the younger woman an incredibly strange look. "Now there's something off about her?"

"I was trying to be nice earlier. She was nice, but, I dunno. She wasn't all there."

"Anything you'd like to share with the class Nate?" Sam asked curiously and they all watched as Nate shrugged. "Shrug?"

"I barely know her, you're the secret agents."

"So when are you seeing her again?" Callen asked with a knowing grin.

"Tonight," Nate admitted with a blush. "And it's not a date. She actually asked me to come over after work 'cause she needs to ask me something."

"Right," Eric replied with a laugh. "She needs to 'ask you something.' Wrap it up."

"Whatever," Nate muttered and stood up, walking quickly out of the bullpen.

"Oops?"

"Slick Eric," Sam muttered and threw a ball of paper at him. "So G, what'd you do this weekend?"

"Nothing," the lead agent replied with a shrug, not ready to admit that he had begun to make a few phone calls to some old contacts, especially since those phone calls had all turned up nothing. "Just, hung out?"

"You don't ever just hang out."

"Well, I did this weekend. I'm trying a new thing. Can't I have a new thing?"

Kensi, Eric and Sam all exchanged looks at his words and chose not to comment. Callen breathed a sigh of relief when Hetty chose that moment to walk into the bullpen and give them all a chastising look, "Busy are we?"

"Completely," Sam replied with a smile and pushed a few papers around his desk for appearances sake. "Any reason we don't have a case?"

"No one died recently, no one has embezzled any money and no one has tried to blow us up yet...but it's still early in the day. Count your blessings and do your paperwork."

"Yes Hetty," three voices replied and Eric stood up, inching his way silently out of the room.

"Mister Beal," Hetty's voice froze him where he stood and Callen tried not to laugh as the younger man turned around slowly to face the much smaller woman. "Diagnostics?"

"Yes Hetty," he finally added his own agreement into play and jogged up the stairs.

"Mister Callen, a word?"

"Sure," he breathed out and stood up, ignoring the curious looks Sam and Kensi were shooting him as he followed Hetty past her office and out of the building. "Out here?"

"The walls have ears in there," she replied and leaned against the building. "I received a call this morning about a line of inquiry you have been pursuing."

"I only called my contacts."

"Yes, well, words has gotten out."

"Is that good or bad?"

"Both," she admitted, her expression telling Callen she was worried.

"Who called you?"

"I can't tell you that," she admitted. "I can however tell you that the person who called me said you are on the wrong track completely."

"How can I be on the wrong track completely? We practically lived in Europe and the Mediterranean. Our contacts there would have the most info about her."

"He didn't explain that, but he did say she's not in Europe."

"Wait, she's not in Europe?" Callen repeated as the tense of Hetty's words processed. "She's alive?" he added shocked, after this many years he had been mostly looking for confirmation of death from people who might know.

"It appears so," Hetty agreed and met his eyes. "But she's not in Europe. And from what the caller said, no one there has heard from her since you both came back to the States after Cairo."

"Hetty," Callen responded, his eyes begging where his tone did not. "Did this person actually say she's alive?"

Hetty was silent for a few moments and finally she nodded, "Yes."

For a moment Callen thought his legs would give out and he took a second to steady himself before asking, "Where?"

"Somewhere here."

"Here? Where here? The States? Langley? California?"

"Los Angeles Mister Callen. She's here," Hetty finally clarified and then before Callen's eyes her face when stony. "However, you're to cease looking for her."

"Like hell."

"If you don't, she could very likely end up the way we all thought she was the last few years. Dead."

"Hetty, who called you?" he asked the woman, his voice showing all the confusion he felt in his mind.

"Patrick Flynn."

The name sent Callen's blood running cold as he watched Hetty silently move back inside the building, giving him a moment to gather his thoughts. Aileen's father had both single handedly opened all the doors he had waited almost six years for and shut them in one order. He tried to remember all he knew about the man but quickly realized it wasn't much. He had been fired from The Agency two years after Callen started working with Aileen; because she had discovered falsifications in the information the man was passing along to agents.

Suddenly things were beginning to make a little more sense.

"Well, no one ever accused me of being a good listener," he muttered, pulling out a burn phone he kept on him for emergencies. Turning on the phone he keyed a number in from memory and waited until a gruff voice answered on the other end, "It's Callen. I need you to find me Kort."

**"You actually want to talk to Kort?"**

"Unfortunately, yes," Callen admitted. "Listen Jethro, this is big and I can't be the one who contacts him. Tell him it's about Red, she's alive. I need to talk to him in person."

**"Wait, she's what?"**

"Yea, I'll explain when I have more information."

**"You sure as hell better,"** Leroy Jethro Gibbs' voice snapped out before the phone call disconnected. Callen hung up on his end with a laugh, he had almost missed Gibbs' phone etiquette. Almost.

* * *

Beth paced around her living room early Monday evening constantly glancing at the clock on each pass. It was twenty-minutes after the time Nate said he'd arrive and her nerves were beginning to fray. She had called him late Sunday night, so late in fact that she had woken him up, and after profusely apologizing for the late hour had found herself begging him to come over after work on Monday.

"This is stupid," she muttered, glancing at the clock again. "He's going to laugh at you."

The verbal admonishment was immediately slapped down by the gut feeling that had been churning since her brother left Sunday evening. Thomas had arrived at her apartment mid-morning on Sunday and had spent the entire day asking leading questions that she had side-stepped with an ability she didn't know she even possessed. It was when he had mentioned looking for a new job on the east coast; and all but ordered her to do the same that her internal warning bells had really started going off. She began to look closer at him, began to notice the fact that their features weren't remotely similar, began to look back on the last few years and cringed at her own stupidity.

"What kind of brother doesn't encourage their sister to remember her life," she muttered, feeling guilty for the traitorous thoughts. "Nate's going to think you're being ridiculous," she added for good measure. Then she reminded herself that she trusted Nate and the only reason she trusted him is that she met him entirely on her own.

A knock at the door had her jumping nearly a foot in the air and her hand immediately straying to her side. The action sent her stomach rolling and she took a moment to calm her nerves before approaching the door carefully, wondering not for the first time why she didn't live in a more secured building, all the while forcing herself to ignore the strange action she had made.

"Who's there?" she asked cautiously.

"It's Nate. There was traffic."

Taking a deep breath, Beth opened the door slowly and peered out with one eye until she saw the psychologist alone standing in front of her door, "Hi."

"Hey, you should really look to move somewhere that has a locked door," he commented, stepping into her small apartment.

"I was just thinking that," she muttered back.

"So, what's up? You sounded, well, not good last night," he replied and Beth could tell he was taking in her borderline shaky appearance. "Are you okay? Did something happen?" he asked, looking around the living room carefully. She watched his eyes take in the pill bottles she had gathered and placed on the coffee table along with the sketchpad and the file she normally locked in the safe. "Beth?"

"I need you to tell me what those drugs do."

"Okay," he replied carefully and as he approached the couch she closed the door and locked all three deadbolts. New locks that she had replaced that morning. "Beth? Did someone hurt you? I've got friends at the LAPD," he continued and she realized he was watching her secure the door.

"No, nothing like that," she insisted. "In fact, I'm hoping you'll tell me I'm being stupid."

"I would never do that," he assured her and sat down, reading the labels on the bottles carefully. However, as the expression on his face became more and more blank, rather then relaxed Beth felt her nerves go even further on edge.

"Nate?"

"Just give me a minute Beth," he said quietly, picking up various bottles and scribbling on the writing pad she had left on the coffee table. "Can I use your computer to check something?"

"Yea, it's over there," she pointed at the laptop sitting on the kitchen table and watched as he walked over and opened up a browser, typing things in and glancing at the pad next to him every few minutes. A half hour later he walked back over and sat down next to her on the couch where they both remained for a few minutes silently staring at the mass of bottles in front of them. "Nate?"

"I haven't known you very long but I'm fairly certain if I was treating you I wouldn't have you on a dose of medication you'd expect to see a violent schizophrenic taking," he answered without pausing. "Cause, I wasn't sure at first. But that right there is a drug cocktail for someone who should be in intense twenty-four hour hospital care."

"But, I?" she whispered, turning to look at him in shock. "God, I was really hoping I was just being paranoid."

"You might be," he interjected quietly. "A lot of the side effects of these medications are paranoia. It's rare for sure, but, with the amount you're taking...and the fact that after twenty-minutes with you I can tell you don't need them. It's possible."

"I stopped taking them six months ago," she replied honestly. "The only thing that happened is that I wasn't quite so, dopey. I had to stop Nate, I was starting to forget things again and I didn't want to."

"Forget? Beth, why are you taking these? You said something about an accident a few years ago," he trailed off and then straightened up and looked her straight on. "Beth, tell me the truth, were you under psychiatric care?"

"No! Well, not really," she admitted. "At least not according to Tommy."

"I think you need to start at the beginning," Nate prodded her gently with his voice. "I can't help you if I don't know the facts. Now, who's Tommy?"

"He says he's my brother," she explained and watched as he raised an eyebrow. "I know, that sounds ridiculous. How could I not know whether he is or not."

"Thought did cross my mind."

"Alright, this is what I know," she began, stressing the word 'know' specifically. "In December of 2004, I was asleep in bed with my husband Greg when a gas line blew in our house. It ignited the oil burner, then the stove, so on and so forth. Firefighters got me out. Greg died in the house. I woke up a year and a half later in a hospital here in LA."

Nate frowned and she could see his eyes trailing whatever exposed skin she had but she held up a hand to forestall any questions until she was finished.

"I had a lot of skin grafts after I woke up," she explained away the minimally scarred skin before continuing. "I didn't remember anything except for some reason I could communicate in a few different languages. Thomas, the guy who was there when I woke up, explained that my name was Elizabeth Banks, he was my brother and I was a translator. The doctor's said that sometimes with retrograde amnesia your body and mind remembers very random things."

"This is true," Nate admitted but still looked confused. "You haven't remembered anything at all except the languages?"

"I have," she admitted. "Little things. But, Tommy always gets weird when I mention something or do something that feels really natural to me."

"He shouldn't be doing that. If you're picking up on little things then he should be trying to jog your memory. Are you seeing a psychiatrist? Wait, scratch that," he muttered the last part and cast an embarrassed glance at the multiple medications. "Though I'm questioning said doctor's sanity."

"What should I do?"

"Alright, well, let's go through what you remember."

"Okay," she replied. "I remember feeling really active. Tommy always said I was kind of lazy, but that felt wrong. That's why I started jogging last year. I also remember being in the desert; and, I'm not talking Arizona."

"What else?"

"Blood," she whispered, scrubbing her face quickly with her hands. "Lots of blood. I think I hurt someone."

Nate paled again and Beth saw him cast another glance at the medication on the table before speaking, "I think I should call someone. I have a friend over at the hospital."

"No!" she interrupted loudly. "I'm not crazy Nate. I'm not."

"I don't think you're crazy Beth. I think you're suppressing something and I don't think taking the meds you've been taking have helped things. Some of those also have major memory side effects. Short term, long term, confusion. Add in retro-grade amnesia and you've got yourself a major problem," he explained quickly, grabbing her hands to hold her attention. "What did the neurologist say about your brain damage?"

"Very minimal," she admitted.

"What does he say now?"

"Tommy changed my doctor after I checked out of the hospital," she told him nervously. "He picks all my doctors. The new one said I shouldn't expect to regain any memory."

"Beth?"

"Yea?"

"How'd you get a job at the State Department with all this medication in your file?"

"I dunno," she replied shrugging. "I had the job before, even Tracey said so."

"Tracey?"

"My boss. She was thrilled to have me back. Said I did the best work out of all her translators. Why?"

"You shouldn't have any type of clearance with the amount of psychiatric medication you're taking. What'd your psychiatrist give you as a diagnosis for all of this?"

"Anxiety."

"Yeaaaaa, if you were the size of a line-backer," Nate muttered, picking up one of the bottles again before tossing it back onto the table in disgust. "Or seven different patients."

They both fell quiet again and Beth watched as Nate picked up the folder and flipped it open, he skimmed through the documents inside and then paused on her marriage certificate. She watched him study the paper, tilting his head a few times before turning to look at her, confusion showing plainly in his expression.

"What?"

"What do you remember about Greg?"

"Nothing," she answered him immediately and definitively. That was the one thing she could be sure of, she didn't remember one single thing about her supposed husband.

"You remember nothing about your husband? Someone you were married to for over four years? Truth Beth."

"I remember someone," she replied, chewing on her bottom lip. "His name isn't Greg. I don't know why I know that, but I do."

"Okay?"

"Sketchbook," Beth said, pointing and watching as he picked it up and began flipping through it. "My psychiatrist, supposedly someone I was seeing before the house fire, said that they're pictures of Greg 'cause I'm subconsciously mourning."

If Beth had been watching his expression as he got into the more detailed pictures in the book she would have seen Nathan Getz go chalk white. Instead she was more focused on the sound of a key being inserted into a lock and then not being able to turn.

"Nate," she hissed. "Nate!"

"Beth?" he whispered, still not hearing the sound outside the door. "How do you know Callen?"

"I don't know," she replied. "I told you that. Wait? What? Callen? You know him?"

Nate merely nodded and then jumped as a fist slammed into the door and a voice yelled, "Elizabeth Banks! Open the door."

"Beth," Nate said quietly. "I think we need to leave."

"I think so too," she agreed and stood up, almost slapping herself when her hand once again wandered to her hip. An action that she noticed Nate saw though he didn't comment. "There's a fire escape in the bedroom."

"Do you need anything?" he asked her. "Essentials right now Beth," he added and then jumped again when the door was slammed so hard it shook. The sound snapped something in her brain and Elizabeth let herself begin running on a strange auto-pilot.

"My go-bag's in the closet," she told him quietly; not even trying to explain to either him or herself why she kept a packed bag at all times. "Grab it for me. I'll be right behind you."

As Nate walked back towards the bedroom Beth grabbed the sketchbook, the file and unplugged her laptop, stuffing all three into a medium sized tote bag she had in the kitchen. Her feet were then stuffed into running shoes and a hoodie was grabbed from the back of a chair before she ran into the bedroom, climbing out onto the fire escape with Nate and scurrying down the ladder after him.

"My car's in the lot across the street," he told her. "Let's go."

"He's already looking for another way in," she replied. "We can't go out front," she added and began dragging him down the alley that ran behind her building.

"Do you even know what you're doing?"

"Yes. And no, I don't know why," was the only explanation she gave him before dragging him into the early evening crowd.

"Where are we going?" Nate asked after they had walked a few blocks.

"Not sure, was kind of hoping you'd have somewhere we could go."

"I do...and I don't. It's complicated," he replied. "I need to call for a ride."

"So call!"

Nate jumped at the order and pulled his phone out, dialing the last number he had called since it happened to be Sam. When the phone was answered he said the first thing he could think of, "Agent needs assistance? North Edgemont and Hollywood Boulevard. Los Feliz."

**"Nate?"**

"Jesus Christ Sam, I'm not fucking around here," he snapped and then paled. "Shit, Sam I'm seriously not kidding. But have Eric track my phone. We gotta go," he added before hanging up and dragging Beth by the arm further down Hollywood Boulevard. "The really pissed off blonde guy looking around behind us, that wouldn't be Tommy would it?"

Beth paused and cautiously glanced behind her before quickening her pace, "Yea it would. Someone coming to get us?"

"Yea," he replied. "But it's going to take them a while to get here from where they are."

Beth considered his words for a half second before shoving her second bag at him, "Double back and get your car. Meet me at Starbucks or trace my phone. You know the number right?"

"Beth what? No!"

"Nate, don't question me right now. Something about this, is making complete sense in a way that life hasn't ever. I'll be okay. Now go," she ordered and shoved him into an alley. "That cuts back to my apartment. Just go."

"Hey Tommy!" she shouted waving at the man who she was beginning to think might not be her brother. "Looking for me?"

"Bethy, come on," he shouted back, ignoring the confused looks on the faces of the crowd and began to walk towards her. Beth waited until he was about ten feet away before darting straight into the crowd and pushing her energy to put a decent distance in between them. When she heard the feet pounding behind her she changed direction and began a cat and mouse game in the Los Feliz shopping district.

It wasn't until twenty minutes had passed and she saw Nate's car idling in front of the Starbucks, just as a second black car came screeching up next to it, that she realized she might have a problem. The brick wall she had paused behind exploding next to her head clued her into that fact. The street filled with screams the second the bullet hit and half the people froze while the other half ran; Beth found herself in the second group and pushed all her reserves towards Nate's car. She was so focused that she didn't see the wide eyed expression on one of the men who had arrived in the second car and she definitely didn't see the second blonde, female, figure step around another corner.

But she did feel what felt like a truck hitting her shoulder as she reached Nate's car and hit the sidewalk just in time to hear a volley of gunfire fly overhead. Seconds later the face she had been drawing for two years crouched in front of her looking shocked and elated.

"You're a hard woman to track down Red," he spoke softly, pushing hard on her shoulder with his bare hands and pulling a curse from her mouth. "Sorry."

"G?" she asked, not questioning the knowledge anymore.

"Yea, it's me," he replied, pushing her hair away from her face with his free hand.

"Good, I'm gonna pass out now, okay?" she added when she saw the blood running down her arm and all over his hands where he was pressing on her shoulder. Her last conscious thought was about how maybe she didn't want to remember anything if getting shot was something so familiar that she was barely phased by it.

* * *

No, things are not going to be that easy for them. If anything, Callen & Aileen being back together are just going to complicate their lives that much more.

So, nice long update for my lovely readers (at least I hope there are readers?). Reviews make me happier then a kid at a carnival.

3


	4. Chapter Three

**Disclaimer:** See Prologue.

* * *

"Does someone want to explain to me why we brought a victim with a GSW back here instead of taking her to the first available emergency room?" Sam asked the second Callen and Nate walked into the bullpen, Hetty following sedately behind them.

Immediately after Aileen had passed out on the sidewalk, Callen had grabbed her and gotten into Nate's car ordering the psychologist to drive to headquarters, leaving Sam to follow them in the other car without any real explanations. Whoever had shot Aileen was gone immediately after the shots were fired and Callen cared less about catching them then he did about keeping the redhead alive.

That had been two hours earlier and this was the first anyone had seen of the three since.

"Yea, it was a through and through, didn't hit the bone and she can get stitched up in medical as easy as in an emergency room," Callen answered quickly, pushing down his aggravation at being asked the question by yet another person. Hetty and Nate had already given him enough grief over the same topic.

"And if you're wrong? And there's complications?" Sam asked; normally the bigger man trusted his partner implicitly, but his current status of being essentially shut out of any information was causing him to doubt the situation more then a little.

"They weren't shooting to kill," Callen added quietly, taking a seat at his desk and trying to release some of the tension in his body. "If they were, she'd be dead already. Besides, she's had worse."

"And that is where I'm having a problem," Sam continued. "Who are they? Who is she? Oh, and let's try this one, what the hell is going on?"

"They, based on who I saw chasing Aileen, are CIA. The blonde's name is Thomas Jacoby. He was our handler for two years out of Langely. Technical term is Staff Operations Officer. He was basically the guy who found out what the politicos needed to know and then he'd tell us what to get."

"I thought her name was Beth?" Kensi asked in confusion making everyone pause and look at Callen for a more detailed explanation then he appeared willing to give.

The team leader closed his eyes at the question and waited a few seconds, weighing out his options in his mind. A glance in Hetty's direction, followed by a nod from her, made his decision for him, "It was Beth, specifically Elizabeth Banks, for about six months in 2004. It was our cover."

"You're Greg," Nate interrupted the explanation with an understanding expression on his face. "Okay, things are starting to make a little more sense now."

"For you maybe," Kensi interjected looking annoyed. "I for one have yet to connect any dots."

"Alright, maybe this will help," Eric commented, pulling a few documents up on the screen. "Thomas Jacoby worked for the CIA until an incident in late 2004. An unnamed Operations Officer was killed in an explosion after Jacoby failed to send in an SAD team, whatever that is, on receipt of a prior determined signal. Jacoby claimed he never received the signal and when the charges blew he immediately dispatched the on-site SAD team."

"That son-of-a-bitch," Callen hissed, jumping up and staring at the report closer. "He's the one that screwed us? We sent the god damned signal! Twice!"

"He did more then screw you Callen. He's the one that set the damn charges. Too bad we couldn't pin it on him," Kort added from behind the group causing them to turn and look in shock.

"You got here fast," Callen commented, not really all that surprised to see the older man.

"You have Gibbs, of all people, track me down and tell me my protege is alive and you think I'm not coming to Los Angeles? You might not like me, but Aileen certainly does."

"Yea, I always wondered about her sanity a little bit for that," Callen quipped, pulling a smirk from Kort.

"I always wondered about her sanity due to her fondness for you. I suppose we're even."

"Okay, now I'd really love an explanation," Kensi interjected again, extracting a hearty laugh from Trent Kort at the comment.

"Sorry love, I'm afraid that explanation is too far above your pay grade."

"Hey, if we're going to protect her then we need to know what the hell is going on," Sam commented.

"You protect her? Don't make me laugh. Even ignoring the fact that the last time Callen tried to protect her everyone who cared about her thought she was dead; NCIS simply doesn't have the resources necessary for her recovery."

"And the CIA is trying to kill her," Callen shot back. "So who wins this argument?"

"The Agency is not trying to kill her," Kort nearly growled the defense, throwing a fairly potent glare in the younger agent's direction. "We actually did think she was dead. Jacoby was fired because we thought he got one of our best damn people killed."

"You mean something happened that you didn't know about?"

"Would you two both stop," Hetty snapped, glaring at both Callen and Kort with equal ferocity. "Now that the reason you both insist on hating each other is obviously not dead; could you pretend that at one point you actually managed to work together and even, dare I say it, somewhat like each other?"

"And, explain what the hell is going on?" Kensi asked again, glancing carefully at the other faces in the room.

"Very brief explanation for the brunette who won't mind her own business," Kort snapped and tossed a drive at Eric, waiting as he plugged it into a computer and ran the program. "CIA Operations Officer Aileen Flynn. Thirty-six; began with The Agency at twenty-one. Masters in Forensic Psychology. Bachelors in Linguistics. She's fluent in nine languages and can get by in at least a dozen more if necessary. Trained with me until she was partnered with Callen at the age of twenty-seven. Blew up five years later. What else do you think you need to know?"

"Why she was blown up?" Eric interjected with a smirk that earned him glares from almost everyone in the room. "Or, not blown up I guess?"

"If we knew why the explosion occurred I wouldn't be here," Kort answered with an uncomfortable shrug. "I re-read your debriefing on the flight here," he added, switching his focus to Callen. "Are you absolutely positive nothing seemed off?"

"Everything went exactly as it was supposed to, right until we sent the greenlights."

"Wonderful," Kort muttered. "Okay, so Jacoby's been keeping her in the dark as to who she was for damn near six years and now suddenly he decides to kill her? There's got to be something else going on."

"She was starting to remember," Nate interjected. "She told me when I went over there that she's been starting to remember little bits and pieces of things. Maybe he figured it out?"

"That still doesn't explain the initial explosion or why he doesn't want her to remember," Callen pointed out and studied Kort as he spoke. "I mean it was obviously Jacoby, but why? We didn't know anything other then what was going on in Seattle. He was clean for that."

"You didn't know anything," Kort clarified with a slight frown. "But maybe Aileen did."

"She would have told me," the younger agent immediately insisted, eyes narrowing at the smirk he received in response.

"You're so sure about that are you?"

"What about her father?" Hetty questioned, before Callen and Kort could initiate another round of arguing. "He called me to shut down Callen's search."

"Patrick Flynn is a bastard, but not an idiot," Kort replied in a scathing tone. "He and his wife raised Aileen to be some sort of super-agent. She should have been a normal kid, at a normal academic level; luckily, she was just bright enough to pull it off. Believe me, the last thing he would want is to get rid of the one thing that might make his contributions to the Agency worthwhile."

"Unless something better came along," Sam commented with a shrug. "I might not know everything that's going on, but I do know that everyone has something they can be offered that looks just a little bit better then what they already have."

"Aileen wanted out," Callen added quietly, noting the surprised look on Kort's face with some inner glee.

"Did she tell him that?" Kensi asked curiously. "If he was so gung-ho about her being his legacy at the CIA, then maybe he'd rather her go down in a hail of gunfire, then just leaving?"

"He wasn't even employed by the Agency at that time. No one would have anything to do with him."

"Revenge?" Callen asked. "Aileen was the one who figured out what was happening."

"True, but Aileen also refused to believe her father was making those mistakes on purpose. She blamed grief over her mother's death. He had no reason to get rid of her, as it were."

"Unless he thought she knew more about something else. Thomas and Patrick were fairly tight. They had a lot of Operations Officers in common."

Kort considered the younger agent's words before speaking, "But what did she know? And why did Patrick tell Hetty Aileen was alive."

"That one's easy; Guilt. Anyway, you're the one who said she didn't tell me everything," Callen explained. "Newsflash, she didn't tell you everything either."

"What can I say? I trained her well."

"And now that training's almost gotten her killed twice," Sam shot back. "So could we stop speculating and try talking to the woman?"

"Sure," Kort replied. "You go right ahead and try to ask someone who doesn't remember more the the past four years or so to please explain why someone tried to kill her and her partner in a house in Seattle."

"This isn't helping," Nate finally snapped and shut everyone up. "We have so many different variables to this situation that at this very moment who is right does not matter. What does matter is that there is a woman with a gunshot would who has no idea why she got shot, nor does she have a clue who she really is. So maybe, and ya know, feel free not to listen to me since I'm only the person who specializes in the human mind, we should try talking to her and seeing if the real information jogs her memory, even a little bit."

"Wow," Eric mock-whispered in an attempt to break the sudden tension that had slammed the room with Nate's words. "Nate's mad."

"I like him," Kort commented to the room at large with a considering look in Nate's direction.

"Yea," Callen agreed with a slight laugh. "He does have that effect. Do you want to get her or should I?"

"I'll go," Nate replied, despite knowing Callen was asking Kort. "I'm the only one here that she actually does know," he added, carefully ignoring the pained look on Callen's face at the truthful comment. "The rest of you please try and take a few deep breaths and calm the level of anxiety that the room's been saturated in over the last fifteen minutes."

After Nate left the room Kort fully walked in and took the seat he had been occupying. The group sat in contemplative silence for a few more minutes before the CIA Agent broke it with a quiet question to Callen, "So, why do you think this happened?"

"I've been asking myself that for over six years Trent. If I knew something, Seattle wouldn't have happened the way it did."

Kort nodded at the words and shook his head, "I still don't think it was Patrick. He's not nearly as smart, or as connected, as he'd like to think he is."

"Jacoby's a good bet," Callen replied without agreeing, his own thoughts on Aileen's father being left in his head until more information was available. "But there's something missing."

"Something? As in singular? Try a whole lot of things kid," Kort muttered with a groan. "Oh and don't think this means we're friends again."

"We were friends?"

"Very funny."

"I thought so," Callen replied, ignoring the confused looks on the faces of his teammates as his mind turned towards more complicated problems then explaining the strange pseudo-friendship he had once had with Trent Kort, due to his own relationship with Aileen, while they all waited for Nate to return.

* * *

More of a transitory chapter in which to bring everyone up to speed on what's going on and the mass amount of information our characters do not know. Sometimes, it's the not knowing that's even scarier then the knowing.

Comments, questions and critiques are more the welcomed.


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